


na melana sahlin

by rievu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, and i realized just how much was there, because i was replaying through it, but mostly inspired by how long ostagar is, in addition to the intro via character backstory, just another one of the reasons why i love dao so much, not rlly anything in particular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13408350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: The Blight is here in full force, and the troops in Ostagar are all busy preparing. The Wardens are doing the same as they try to bolster their numbers before the final fight. And among all of the thrumming preparations for war, there is a single elf in the midst of everything, trying to find their way. They have no choice; their time has come.A deconstruction of a elven Warden's time at Ostagar whether she be warrior, rogue, or mage.// na melana sahlin; your time is come





	na melana sahlin

**Author's Note:**

> more like me taking an excuse to babble about my wardens senselessly

Mahariel is weary and tired, and every step she takes feels like cold fire is searing her body. Of course, what else is there to expect? She has the taint making its way through her veins. Keeper Marethari could only do so much, and she is paying the price for the rest of her life every day. Her face is gaunt, her skin is becoming translucent, her veins are turning black, and her eyes are beginning to pale in color.   
Duncun tells her that she is becoming something that the Grey Wardens call a ghoul. A twisted, misshapen husk of a person with only the haunting call of the Archdemon lingering in her ears to drive her feet onward until she joined the legions of darkspawn that marched on the land of her ancestors. She shudders when she thinks about it and avoids thinking about her appearance. Still, she cannot ignore it. Not when the veins beneath her skin are turning blacker and blacker with each passing day.

She is tired, oh so bone-weary and tired. That same insipid song winds its way into her ears, like the underground temple, calling to her even more strongly than she has ever felt before. Raising her head, she stares at the human king, bright and golden and cheery, and frowns. She only says the least amount of words that she could possibly say and pushes past the shemlen king as soon as she can. Duncan does not say anything about her misconduct for a royal, but he tells her to find another Grey Warden by the name of Alistair. But the minute he leaves, she turns around to where the trees and grass are behind the bridge. Mahariel sinks down onto the ground and lets herself lie back against the gentle and blissfully cool blades of grass. For a moment, she can hear blessed silence, but the darkspawn song resumes its call once the caw of a raven resounds.

Tales of Dirthamen and his ravens filter through her hazy mind, and the corners of her lips twitch up. Ashalle had once said that she and Tamlen were just like the twin gods, Dirthamen and Falon’Din, inseparable from the beginning to the very end. Something twists in her gut and bitterness floods her. Her failure tastes acrid on her tongue. She promised to lay her allegiances with the goddess of protection, and look at her now. Branches of Mythal on her face but failure on her hands. The failure to protect neither Tamlen nor her clan. She grits her teeth when she thinks about her clan being forced to flee from their usual routes and safe places. The few and far places in between this land of the shemlen. She wonders what will they do about their caches set aside for winter times and spring rains. She wonders how Merrill will ever get her new staff carved with wood from the Brecilian forest. She wonders if they will ever lay another oaken staff in the grove of their ancestors along the little-trodden paths of the deep wilderness that housed as many staffs and saved bones as they could bring along. Mahariel frowns, and with that thought, she forces herself to get up and shuffle across the bridge.

Mahariel pays no attention to the shemlen flittering and fluttering around during their preparations for battle. She ignores the mages, the soldiers, the incessant chant of light, but she stops after hearing a soft whine. It is a mabari and she can _feel_ the taint within him as well. He raises his head up and catches her gaze; there is an understanding between them over their shared misery. A quick talk with the kennel master gives her the rest of the details, and she reaches out a shaky hand to give the dog a quick pat on the head. She’d save him at least.

When she leaves the kennels, still tired and weary, she runs across an aging woman by the curling, knotting roots of an old tree. The woman tells her that her name is Wynne, but the only thing that Mahariel can think of is how  _old_ the mage must be. She would be lucky and blessed by the Creators if she or anyone else from her clan ever lived to wrinkle and age and watch as their hair whitened with the passing of years. Even Keeper Mahariel and some of the elders were not as old as other elves could be. If anything, their hair whitened from the burning of the sun or the increasing burden of keeping a clan alive in the bare wilderness with little else to claim as one's own. Mahariel wishes that she could have lived that long or at least seen Tamlen, Merrill,  _someone_ , live that long.

Finally, she finds the Warden, arguing with a mage. She sees how he recoils at the sight of her with her taint-stricken body. She knows what she must look like to both the stranger mage and the Grey Warden. The Warden would be far more repulsed; he would know what she is slowly becoming. Too tired to object or even care, she gets dragged along to Duncan’s fire with Alistair murmuring worried words about her state. Mahariel only focuses on putting her feet forward to where she is supposed to go, one resolute step after another. She will not submit to the darkspawn, not when she has made it this far. _We are the last of the Elvhenan; never again shall we submit._ Mahariel does not intend to ever submit.  
Duncan asks for vials of darkspawn blood as well as some sort of document, but Mahariel doesn’t pay too much attention. The song is too loud for her to focus on anything else. Still, it should not be hard. If there is anything in abundance, it is blood whether it be that of prey or that of the hunter. She lets out a rattling breath, her lungs aching with pain as she did so. At least this gives her the opportunity to find the flower for the tainted mabari.

Besides, what was more darkspawn anyways? She was already on the _Din’anshiral:_ the journey to death.

 

* * *

 

If Daveth glances at her chest one more time, Tabris decides to simply throw caution to the wind and give him a solid punch to the nose. Ser Jory’s prudish pride is also irritating to say the least. The Grey Warden, Alistair, was another _shem_ , but something about his face, his ears, his features, _something_ , seemed strangely familiar so she restrains her temper. For now.

Father would be so proud of her for that small mercy.

Tabris sighs as she thinks about Father in that too-empty house now. When her mother died, the house seemed like it was inhabited only by ghosts. The places where her mother used to frequent appeared so empty, and she can only imagine what her father must see now in the spaces that she left empty. She wonders what Seranni is doing, and her lip curls as she thinks about what exactly happened on her unfortunate wedding day. She does not care if she dies in this Blight; she will not let another shem dog touch her cousin again.

She shakes her head free of memories and winces slightly as she steps through a particularly wet patch of mud. They are tromping through the middle of the Korcari Wilds in search of darkspawn blood and a few documents that the Wardens had left out there long ago. Personally, she finds that to be a bit irresponsible of them, but no matter. She’s out here with these bumbling _shems_ and she has to make the most of it. This is not the cobblestoned streets of Denerim. Here, the overgrowth and underbrush all seem threatening and strange to her. This is not familiar territory for her to fight in. Her mouth turns down into a scowl and she pushes onwards.

They pass under an overhanging log and even Tabris has to choke down a gasp when they see human bodies hanging from ragged ropes above them. Their wounds seem relatively new — they’re not skeletons — and not completely rotting either. Ser Jory physically stops, and when Tabris moves closer, she can hear prayers and a few verses of the Chant spilling from his lips. She gives him a good shove and snaps, “Andraste isn’t going to save your sorry shem ass if you keep gawking. The darkspawn are still everywhere. Don’t just stand there.”  
Alistair sadly shakes his head and shoulders his shield and sword with a tighter grip as he passes underneath. Daveth blanches and starts blathering things under his breath in a furious litany of something that's not quite prayer but something that's not quite a list of swear words. Tabris only grits her teeth and swears that she won't be one of those corpses on the log.

This sort of wild expanse sets her on edge. She’s used to tight alleys where shadows were always there to slip into when danger came too close. She’s just so used to hard cobblestones beneath her feet instead of the slippery mud. And yet, there are still shadows and places that the darkspawn find to leap out of, and it sends more adrenaline surging through her. And as she expected, the blood was easy to procure enough. It's the documents that take the most time. When at long last they reach the old warden outpost, Alistair cries out with disappointment when he finds that the documents are gone. But, Tabris catches a flash of black in the corner of her eye and whirls around.

It’s a woman.

A half-naked woman.

A half-naked woman who looks very dangerous.

Tabris likes the dangerous part the most.

She stalks towards them, a sly smile curving her lips and her voice soft and almost sultry. “And what are you doing in these precious wilds of mine? Picking through the ruins of a tower long-forgotten, like some sort of vulture,” she muses. Her eyes glint as she speaks, but before Tabris can respond, Alistair interrupts, “Don’t trust her. She looks Chasind, and that means more could be nearby.” The woman laughs with derision, but Daveth hastily grabs Tabris’s arm while hissing, “She could be a witch of the wilds! She’ll turn us all into toads!” The woman cocks her head and smirks, “Such idle fancies you believe in. Do you believe all legends that you hear?” She glances at Tabris who was trying to shake off Daveth. “Perhaps we could talk, you and I? I pity you, considering your… company.”

Tabris finally gives up and wrenches Daveth off of her as hard as she could. He cries out with pain and she hopes that she hasn’t dislocated his wrist. He kinda needs that for darkspawn fighting (not that he did much anyways). She looks up at the woman who is now nodding with approval while Daveth cries. Tabris sighs heavily and turns to the woman as she says dryly, “Tabris. A pleasure to meet you. And your name is…?” The woman laughs again, this time, with some genuine note of amusement. “Now _that_ is a civil greeting, even for the wilds! Well met, Tabris. You may call me Morrigan.”

Alistair opens his mouth to speak, but Tabris doesn’t give him a chance. Alistair could be a bit of a bumbling, well-intentioned, and _kind_ fool, but he would only drive away Morrigan. “We’re looking for some Grey Warden documents that were left here long ago,” she says instead. “Do you know where they are?” Morrigan arches an eyebrow and replies, “Ah, so direct. But the documents that you seek are no longer here.” Tabris narrows her eyes and asks, “But do you know where they are?” Morrigan laughs again and steps even closer, “You really are a sensible and direct one, aren’t you? My mother has them.”

Tabris nods decisively, “Well, could you take us to her then?” She can vaguely hear Daveth, Ser Jory, and Alistair having mild meltdowns about following a witch, but she really isn’t worried about them. She just wants the damn documents to get out of the muddy Wilds. Morrigan simply smiles and extends her hand out. Tabris contemplates her chances of becoming a toad before shrugging and taking it.

“Might as well get the job done once you’ve started,” she grimly thinks.

 

* * *

 

When they tell Surana about the Joining, she barks out an unexpectedly cold and derisive laugh. Alistair gives her a strange look, and Duncan takes a step forward, but she holds up her hand. “No, no, I’m just laughing at the irony of it all,” she clarifies. Alistair tilts his head quizzically and she explains, “I’ve already gone through a Harrowing. It’s not like the Joining could be any worse.”

The Joining is worse.

Daveth falls to the ground, writhing and twisting, and his screams are blood-curdling. Ser Jory blanches and goes down, blood burbling from his mouth and Duncan’s blade unsheathing itself from his flesh. And when Surana finally drinks, the blood burns its way down her throat and her head throbs with a kind of pain that she’s never felt before. Not even a Silence was as bad as this. Her ears pop and suddenly, she can hear the faint strains of harsh, grating, and somehow sweet music calling to her from the distance. Her bones ache and she falls to the ground, her eyes rolling back in her head into black unconsciousness.

When Surana wakes up, she sees Alistair next to her, clasping her shoulder and giving her some support. Her mouth tastes absolutely foul, and she weakly says, “That was a harrowing experience.” Alistair blinks at her before laughing at her horrifying pun. “Usually _I’m_ the one with the bad jokes,” he chortles. “But to start off with a bad pun right after the Joining? That’s a new one I can’t beat.” Surana blinks. She didn’t mean it to be a pun, but she lets the moment pass.

Once she’s steady enough on her feet, they make their way back to Duncan’s bonfire to receive their new assignment for the battle. The Tower of Ishal. Alistair grumbles about it, but Surana honestly doesn't have a single problem with that. She’d rather _not_ go charging after darkspawn until after her stomach settles a little bit more.

But then, the warhorns sound and the battle begins. The sounds of war cries, the clash of metal against metal, and the twanging of bowstrings are all new and foreign to Surana. The most that she’s ever heard like that are the templars shifting on their feet during their watches. A wounded soldier stumbles his way towards them and chokes out, “Darkspawn, d-darkspawn in the Tower!” He collapses, and when Surana prods him warily with the end of her staff, he does not move.

She raises her gaze to Alistair, and his face looks stricken before he schools his features into some grimace that she supposes is supposed to be determination.

They run to the tower, faster than ever. Surana fires spells from behind Alistair and his shield, and Alistair charges up. She flings a decent fireball at the genlocks in front and then squats down to heal two soldiers. She wasn’t the greatest at spirit or healing magic, but she could do enough. Surana sucks in a heavy breath as she tries to stitch muscle and flesh back together. There was an older apprentice, soon mage, named Anders who tried to teach her to do this once in the infirmary to little avail. She remembers doing well enough to pass her finals, but she never would have made as fine of a spirit healer as he would have and never even close to the talents of some senior enchanters like Wynne. What she wouldn’t give to have at least one of them nearby to lend her their talents.

Surana winces as one soldier yelps with pain, but she tries her best. “Are you alright? Can you stand? Can you fight?” she asks hurriedly. She receives two “ayes” as a reward for her efforts. “Then could you continue on?” she inquires. They nod and follow her and Alistair through the tower floors.

The scent of burning flesh fills the dark tower, and frost coats the floor as Surana launches spell after spell. She’s in her element, casting spells and firing hexes at the darkspawn. She’s never been able to fully let go of her inhibitions, and she draws mana freely from the Fade through the painfully thin Veil. She’s never felt more alive than this, and she sucks in a breath of magic and exhales it out in a corona of power.

Once they reach the top of the tower, it becomes more critical. The two soldiers finally fall, eyes rolling back, as they finally step into death. Alistair isn’t much better, but he keeps his sword and shield up in an impressive display of Grey Warden stamina. With a final burst of magic, Surana pulls pure hellfire from the air and extinguishes the last remnants of life from the gigantic ogre.

It’s then that she sinks down to the floor, covered in black blood. She finally feels the complete absence of her mana, and the sensation hits her like several stacks of textbooks. She knows the feeling because Jowan once tossed twenty-seven textbooks with force magic as a joke.

Alistair looks equally as fatigued. Surana bites her lip, painfully gets up, and steps gingerly over the dead bodies to extend a hand to him. He blinks at her before carefully taking it. Surana shuts her eyes and _knows_ that this isn’t a good idea. Still, she nudges the barest traces of magic out of the clotting pools of blood on the floor in order to heal the worst of his wounds. She hopes that Alistair doesn’t notice too much in his stupor, and when the largest wound seals up, she finishes the rest of the work with her own mana.

Surana squats back down near the ground again, trying to steady her breathing. Her mana trickles back ever so slowly, and she sighs with relief. Now it’s Alistair’s turn to extend his hand. She takes it gratefully, and they half-limp, half-support each other towards the signal fire. The last trace of mana flows down her arms and fingers to light the signal fire. The familiar spell leaves her hand as a spark that sets the kindling ablaze. Alistair sighs with relief as they wait for the sounds of the Ferelden army to come.

But they never do.

The sounds of an entirely different army echoes from the floor beneath them, and just like that, their sense of victory and triumph bleeds away. It only leaves them cold with a sickening revelation. Surana’s eyes meet Alistair’s, and she sees the same wide-eyed look of horror in his face. And somehow, her mind focuses on the pure irony that she would die in a tower after all despite all odds and despite her freedom from the first tower that kept her in for so many years.

She forces herself to stay awake, to shake away the fatigue that dogs at her heels. Her eyelids feel _so_ heavy though, and her limbs ache. Alistair’s stance weakens, and he doesn’t hold his blade and shield nearly as high as he did before.

The call of the haunting song grows louder in her ears, and she hears a dragon’s roar (the Archdemon?) in the distance. Shock and horror dig their way into her throat, and the dark and blackness welcome her again as she falls once more into dreamless unconsciousness.

The tower is lost, and so would Ostagar.

And soon, Ferelden itself and the rest of Thedas if the Blight goes unchecked.

**Author's Note:**

> joke's on you bc the warden doesn't die HA (everyone knows that it's not funny oh no)


End file.
